


A well-tied tie

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Depth on the Bench [20]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Established Relationship, Luc's budding sense of fashion, M/M, Neck Ties, Sartorial nonsense, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: Three times Grant didn't approve of Luc's choice of tie, and one time no ties were involved.





	A well-tied tie

**Author's Note:**

> This is a silly thing that has been floating around my head as I perused Pinterest boards of men fashion for other reasons, and that dragged me into writing it when I should have been writing any of the other drafts of things I have floating around in google docs. But here we are. With Luc and Grant and opinions about neck wear.

1.

Grant invites him to some dinner function when they’re in New York. It works out because Jacks has plenty of friends, from his time in Philly, to catch up with in the New York/New Jersey area. 

Grant’s looking at his phone and barely notices when Luc slides into the back of the sleek black Maybach next to him. “Hello, Luc,” he says, still furiously texting, “one moment, my apologies, just putting out a minor fire.” 

Luc unbuttons his suit coat, makes himself comfortable, smiles at the driver, and helps himself to a bottle of water while the car creeps through traffic. 

When Grant finally looks up his eyes sweep over Luc, “You look very handso--- _what_ are you wearing????”

“Exactly what you told me to. Two piece, single breasted, three season, gray. What’s wrong it?” 

But Grant’s eyes are narrowed down on his tie. “What in god’s name is that monstrosity?”

“It’s a tie.” Luc rolls his eyes, irritated. There is nothing wrong his tie. He knows there’s nothing wrong with his tie, or his tie in relation to his suit because Elana, his tailor, picked the tie out. Also Jacks likes this tie, and Jacks does not like ugly ties. 

“Yes,” Grant hisses, “It’s a rather nice raw silk that you are doing a great… injustice... twisting into that vile shape.” 

“But --” Luc protests. Bergie was the one had been looking at different tie knots on the plane last week. Luc had been half way through a basic four-in-hand when he’d remembered it, and gotten Bergie to walk him through ‘the floating spiral’ knot. He’d sort of thought Grant would like it. “You like this sort of bullshit.” 

Grant takes a steadying breath. “There are exactly four knots that are appropriate for business. These… _novelty_ knots are… _fine_ if that’s what you want to do in your private time, but they are _not_ appropriate for any sort of public venue where you wish to be taken seriously.” 

“You are the biggest square I’ve ever met in my life, bro,” Luc pouts. And before Luc can start grumbling about ungrateful stuffy misanthropes who should be glad their bro is doing them a fucking solid, Grant has undone his seat belt and is leaning over tugging at his tie.

“Oh, hi,” Luc says at surprising sensation of Grant’s hands, warm and large at his throat, “Hello to you too, please, undo all my work, I only spent an hour on it, it’s fine, dude.” 

Grant tugs the silk off his neck, “You will get this back when you can promise you will treat it with the respect it deserves,” he says, folding the silk and sticking it into his pocket, “undo your top button, tie-less will be sufficient for our purposes tonight.” 

“I bet no one Jacks is having dinner with tonight is this bossy,” Luc says, “he said they were going to get chicken wings.”

“Alas, you will have to make do with my tedious company and Chef Boulud’s creations.” 

“Oh I’m sure I can find someway to make the night entertaining,” Luc jokes, “who was the guy you wanted me to irritate the shit out of?” 

“Thomas Hazelton-Smithworpe. He’s an intensely unpleasant man, I’m sure you won’t find it difficult. His wife though….”

“Right, his wife’s a bro and gets only the Chantal charm. And to everyone else… I’m dumb pretty arm candy.” 

Grant gives him a soft genuine smile, “Well, you are quite incapable of not being pretty, but you needn’t play dumb, although it would be easier if you pretended to be uninterested in business. ”

“It’s not pretending, dude, I am so fucking uninterested, but I’ll keep my ears open and tell you everything I hear.” 

“Excellent,” Grant brushes his hand over Luc’s shoulder, “I do appreciate it, Luc. You are helping me immensely tonight.” 

“Can I have my tie back, mon gar?” Luc asks, as they exit the car and start walking into the event space. 

“You may not, I’ll give the tie to Oliver. He’s a reasonable man who will make sure it comes to no further harm.” 

“This is fun,” Luc grins, catching sight of his and Grant’s reflection in the gleaming glass of the building, “I’ve never been a spy before. Do you think I’m more of a Pierce Brosnan Bond, or a Daniel Craig?”

 

2\. 

If he’s honest, clothes had never really been Luc’s thing. They were tools, like any other part of his gear. Suits and gym clothes were as much a part of his team uniform as his jersey and pads, really, and those three groups pretty much covered all his clothing needs. He cared that they did their job, were well-made and comfortable, but he was as content to let his tailor pick the fabric of his suits as he was to let the front office pick jersey designs. Elana, tiny, short haired, with tortoiseshell glasses and tattoos on her hands, probably has better taste than the Nordique’s marketing manager, so Luc is perfectly willing to let her dictate what shirts or pocket squares go with the suits she makes him. 

But Jacks has always cared a little more about putting together A Look, about expressing himself through his clothing. Luc finds himself gradually finding he has more preference than he realized. 

“Would this look better with peak lapels?” Luc asks Elana one day and she _grins_ at him. 

“Dude,” she says. “I’m so proud of you. My little baby bird, spreading his wings.” 

“Haha,” Luc blushes. 

 

And then, months later, when Jacks is standing around in a half made suit full of straight pins, and Luc is wandering the shop, Luc holds up a silk square of cloth. “Could I wear this with the brown herringbone and that green wool tie?”

Elana gives him a high five. Jacks kisses his cheek. 

 

Luc finds his confidence growing and his tastes becoming a little stronger. There are some missteps, for sure. The Incident of the Velvet Loafers that is never to be spoken about again. There’s a try at a pin-striped, double breasted English style suit that he quickly abandons as not his thing although the increased range of motion for the double vents is kind of nice. And there's a maroon tuxedo that he’s still not entirely sure he pulled off, but had fun in. There’s a painted silk pocket square that gets him chirped for days. 

None of those dubious choices, however, have anything to do with this tie, though. This tie, wide, polyester, and eye-searingly blaze-orange is purely punitive. Luc should have known better than to make bets with G at the driving range. 

“I’m sorry,” Jacks laughs, eyes crinkling, “Luc, you look so disgruntled. Look on the bright side.” 

“What bright side?” 

“The literal one? I mean, you know, strategically, you could use it to blind the Habs, if they look too closely at you before the game. Try to wander in front of their goalie a few times.” 

“Asshole.” Luc laughs and tackles him onto the bed. 

Hideous as it is, Luc sort of forgets about it once the game day rituals get started. The first home game of the season is always a circus. They’re coming off another Cup win last year and Luc’s pressed with enough media questions about their prospects for the upcoming season, roster changes, etc. that whatever the fuck he’s wearing is the last thing on his mind. In fact, he’s forgotten all about it until he gets back to the dressing room, has stripped down and changed into his Under Armour and checks his phone one last time before getting his kit on. There’s two texts from his parents wishing him good luck, and a text from Grant. Luc laughs, startled, and then tosses his phone to Jacks for him to read. Grant has sent a photo of the screen of his TV, Luc’s face and torso frozen on the frame, orange tie literally glowing under all the camera lights. 

His only text just reads “NO." 

“Oh look,” Jacks laughs, “he texted me too. He wanted to make sure you hadn’t had any recent head trauma in the pre-season games.” 

“I’m surrounded by assholes,” Luc sighs. Jacks tosses him his phone just in time for it to ding with another message. This one’s from G and it’s just three lines of laughing faces and one siren emoji. 

“Assholes,” Luc repeats, and starts pulling on his pads, any thoughts of clothing vanishing from his mind as soon as the chest piece settles over his shoulders, “Alright, boys, the Habs are gonna be mad as fuck about last post season so let’s get our fucking game faces on and put them back on their heels before they even get started, okay?” 

 

 

3\. 

Luc is not sure about the bow-tie. He is not sure, fundamentally, if he is a bow-tie person. This one is an ancient madder silk in cream and burgundy and Luc _likes_ it, sort of, like in theory, mostly, but he’s still not sure it’s him. 

Or maybe the general sense of wrongness stems more from the fact that he’s stuck in his suit when he should be in his gear, scratched on the advice of Stacey, the traitor, who advised the fucking coaches that maybe he shouldn’t play with a hairline fracture in his fibula. 

Who even fucking needs fibulas. No one - that’s who. Stacey is off the bro list. 

IR is never fun, but it’s significantly less shitty to sit in the press box when he has his son with him. Sasha has already charmed the Nordique’s twitter feed handler (a 22 year old social media graduate named Kelsie) who’s already so far gone that she’s let Sasha, who’s 22 _months_ old, pick all her emojis in the last 3 tweets and posted a gif of him waving his tiny hockey stick and shouting “BIG HOCKEY!!” as a reaction gif to a goal. Now he’s working on providing a rambling play-by-play, half of which the announcer is dutifully repeating. 

 

Luc’s feeling so generally off balance that it takes him a while to realize that the after game locker room is out of balance too. Sasha wants to visit Stacey-the-fibula-tyrant, so Luc puts him on his shoulders and wanders over to the PT rooms, where Stacey’s happy for Sasha to visit for a few minutes while Luc heads to the locker room for the post game. Luc answers a few questions about how his leg is healing and tries not to let it show how it’s gradually sinking into him how just slightly _off_ things feel in the room. Media’s just clearing out when that tension ratchets up a notch and Luc sees the owners walk through with three other men in suits from where it looks like they’d been lingering in an office. They’re turned away, talking to the coaches but as one of them half turns Luc realizes it’s Grant. Luc knew he was in town - he’s got dinner plans with them later- but didn’t know he was wandering around the arena. 

He must have been sitting in one of the boxes with the owners and investors. Luc kicks at Ten’s foot where he’s talking to Bergie and Socks in a low muttered conversation. “What?” he asks, bluntly. 

Ten grabs his ankle, “stop kicking with your injured leg, idiot”, and then jerks his head toward the men standing off to the sides with Coach. “Do you think they’re just here to sight see or because the 'diques are for sale and we don’t know?” 

Oh. No wonder everyone’s spooked. Ownership changes always means management changes which always means coaching changes etc etc etc. 

“Hey!” Luc shouts across the locker room, “brah! You’re just going to stay over there and not come say hi?”

Across the room Jacks rolls his eyes and goes back to peeling tape of his socks, smiling. Luc winks at him as filthily as he can in a way he hopes conveys, “I saw your two goals and I’m going to suck your brain out of your dick as soon as we get home.” 

The men turn around, faces a mix of confusion or irritation. Except Grant, of course, who grins and wanders over, slow like a cat who’s pretending he’s not coming because you called. “Luc,” he smiles, coming to stand right in front of him, eyes sweeping up and down and settling on his tie, “I’m not sure,” he says, fingers brushing across the silk, “that this is exactly right. It’s lovely, but I’m not sure if suits you.” 

“Oh thank _fuck_ ,” Bergie swears, loudly, “it’s just Luc’s sugar daddy.” 

The tension of the room evaporates into the complete lack of shits anyone gives about who Luc might or might not be fucking. 

Grant’s face does a weird sort of exasperated smile. 

Luc raises his chin and lets Grant undo his tie. “You were freaking them out,” he murmurs when Grant asks him, softly, “was that really necessary?” 

“I see. I apologize.”

“Are you buying the ‘diques?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Oh good, so stop spooking my boys, dude.” 

 

 

+1

 

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Luc asks, looking up from where he’s rooting through the back of his truck. 

Grant looks down at his outfit. He’d had to raid the very back of his closet to find his rattiest jeans he hadn’t even looked at since the late 1990s. There’s a hole in one knee. 

“Too formal?” Grant only half jokes in answer. Luc, after all, is wearing hyper neon pink board shorts and a sweatshirt that’s had its sleeves removed and its crew collar cut into a V.

“No,” Luc grins and the grin makes the his eyes crinkle, makes his absurdly long eyelashes do something that’s as bewitching now as it was when Grant first met him. “I’ve just never seen you in real people clothes before.” He cocks his head to the side, “it looks nice, dude. You don’t look like an asshole at all. You need help with your bags?” 

“I think I can manage.” Grant pops the trunk of his rental car and throws his bag over his shoulder even as Luc crowds in next to him and picks up the cooler and tent-bag. Beach camping. Who would believe Grant was capable of being talked into such a thing. Down the path he can hear shrieking children and laughter, can just make the top of a volleyball net, a campfire among a bunch of tents. The wind off the sea ruffles through Luc’s hair, lifts it up. 

“I brought wine,” he offers. 

“For sure, bro,” Luc grins as they reach the campsite. “Crack open a sav blanc or whatever. Pull up a hammock.”

“I think I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> "A well-tied tie is the first serious step in life." -Oscar Wilde 
> 
> This is a very silly fic. Come find me at superstitionhockey on tumblr for as long as tumblr is still a thing.


End file.
